Rockies – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

July 10, 2025July 9, 2025

Full Circle Friends

The world of social media, with its myriad features ranging from terrific to terrifying, has brought forward in our day some wondrous random surprises.

The Rockies and the Great Northwest started stealing my soul early on, even ahead of the providential discovery of a Billings, Montana lass whose marital companionship now spans many decades.

Fast forward.

A while back Ann and I were anticipating a special road trip. A long one. Departing Tulsa, we would head northwestwardly. Our travels should in time bring us full circle counter-clockwise back to the Sooner State, catching along the way long overdue snatches of time with family and friends. Enter Facebook.

A heart-skip moment overtook me when the photo of a young East African gent popped up.

“Hey babe, look who’s in Cheyenne, Wyoming!”, I called out.

A quick ‘messaging’ dialogue ensued. Ann and I could hardly wait to enter the Cowboy State and connect afresh with our friend, Seth, and to meet his wife and (now adult) children.

The dinner visit and overnight stay with the “O” family was priceless.

Motoring onwards – up and across Montana and through points further West – we snatched treasured visits (far too briefly) among international student alums of Tulsa University. Treasured friendships had been forged through those campus ministry years.

My social media fiddling had uncovered another revelation. I reached out to Naphtali. Long years had passed since our last meetup.

Ann had, in the early 80s, taught Naphtali accordion, had passed along to him her mother’s squeeze box for his street evangelism work in Nyeri town.

“Hey Naphtali, if you are home there in Seattle when we come through, could we catch an evening together?” Naphtali’s response was immediate, “Oh my. . Of course, Mzee!”

A couple weeks passed and we were in his city. Anticipating our call, our friend and posed a question:

“So now, Mzee, what would you and Sister Ann prefer – dinner out in the American style or some Kenyan food prepared in my kitchen?”

A no brainer, I smiled.

Our Kenyan hosts – transplants to Washington and Wyoming now – lived well the grace of welcoming*. Generosity at home in their bones.

*“Share with the Lord’s people. . practice hospitality”. Romans 12:13

September 28, 2023

Subtle Signals

How can three simple letters buried on a page inside a modest publication signal a life-altering shift in a person’s journey – into a future set to unfold some nine thousand miles away? And, in ‘spaces’ unlike any lived in before?

(*correction, ISI is not three letters, only two. One of them just gets more press!)

When big shifts occur in a person’s life, we sometimes find ourselves transported into new and different zones. They could be occupational or geographical or whatever. We might respond to any of these shifts with feelings of excitement, trepidation, enthusiasm or awe. The shift in my case included a physical relocation. My feelings tended to signal puzzlement.

If we could reduce to a single word the big turning points in our lives the term threshold might fit well.

Threshold – a place of beginning, a doorway, or brink.

At the time of spotting the letters, I S I, on the page of the quarterly publication those years ago, I could never have imagined their import. After all, the offices of International Students Inc were sat nestled in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies. My home lay in the foothills of Mt Kilimanjaro.

Beyond the range of my understanding, a hint at an approaching shift with life-altering turns was signaling from that one page of the Evangelical Missions Quarterly lying open atop a small table before me.

Setting the magazine aside, my thoughts pivoted.

Dad had fallen gravely ill in Oklahoma. I had a plane to catch.

September 5, 2015August 28, 2017

Heart condition

Thirty years after my mother’s California journey I took the same bus line toward Colorado’s Rockies. Past giant grain elevators of Enid where nearly half of Oklahoma’s harvested wheat is kept. We passed towns with romantic, historic, sometimes fanciful, names. Stillwater. Fort Supply. Slapout. At seventeen I had never travelled alone nor with strangers beyond about six miles of my home.

Melancholy. Adventure. Tension. The feelings mingled with others. Back home at Preston High my twenty-or-so classmates navigated two modest hallways. I, meanwhile, moved with each passing fence-post, toward a high school larger than I’d ever seen. Greater Denver’s population numbered more than half my state. What’s a big school like anyway? For an outsider entering twelfth grade?

I suspect my father’s stringent measure in sending me here rose largely from fear. Tensions, frustrations, awareness of his own short fuse. He couldn’t risk distancing me more. Ironically, this distance may be a safer, more promising, choice. He could take comfort, too, that I’d be in good hands with his daughter, my sister. Betty. One he knew to be responsible. Neither dad nor the rest of us knew of her struggles in a tough marriage. She and her four little ones – even as I approached Englewood, Colorado. She met me at the arrival depot. We were en route home.

In 1962 fewer than 500 McDonalds restaurants dotted our nation. I entered school right away and took a weekend job at the Golden Arches. I served up fifteen-cent burgers and fifteen-cent fries. Colorado introduced me to stock car racing, pepperoni pizza, moisture-starved nasal passages from the mile-high climate’s dry air. And, to the Cuban Missile Crisis. T.V. anchors drilled viewers with contingency plans. Looping announcements to run through each day. All traffic lanes will become one-way. Taking commuters outward – away from the metro area should evacuation sirens sound.

Somewhere in the mix, my dear sis was there for me. Supplying perspective in nonthreatening ways to her kid brother. Cutting through, patiently, confused tangles of my unsound thinking.

Months in, I somehow received word that my dream-girl had left Oklahoma. I traced a number to Sue and, through an operator, dialed it.

Hello.

A flat male voice answered. I was standing – my back grazing Betty’s kitchen wall. For a moment I was quiet. I found my voice.

May I speak with Sue?

The male voice went silent. After some seconds she took up the phone.

Hello.

Sue have you gone back to your home – in your own state?

Yes.

Are you with him?

Yes.

Does this mean things are over now?

Yes. (a pause). I need to go now. Goodbye.

Concise. Surgical. Indeed, the raw announcement severed. As with a swift amputation. And minus anesthetic.

I began unraveling. I was, to a degree, unaware of surroundings. Not caring to mask emotion, what followed likely seemed melodrama. Still, I was a wreck – a heap of pre-twenties hormones and misapplied affections. Undone. The wreck slid down the wall. Not having really sorrowed for a good while – mark of my callousing heart – I let flow a torrent. After minutes, when the sobs waned, I was spent. I breathed a long sigh. I took in my surroundings and was relieved that I was still alone.

A clearness of thinking emerged. Slowly at first. The fog of misplaced affections, of contrivances, faded. Giving way to clarity. Tears resumed. But washing tears this time. Truth – deep and rich – seemed to find its footing inside me. Truth – like a homesick reject returning after a long absence. Unresisted. What irony. I softened further and my eyes lifted.

Father. Father.

I am so sorry. Tears again.

Added words didn’t seem needed, or expected. I sensed that God wasn’t after a homily, a prayer as such. Just my heart. Responding to grace. To Him.

A deep quiet followed. I savored it a while. Thankfully. So thankful.

Home. The word came as a silent whisper inside. Then repeating itself.

My lame foot had gone to sleep from my position on the floor. I rotated it a little. It stirred. I drew myself up and reached again for the wall-mounted green phone. Yes operator. I need to make a call. Soon a familiar voice was on the line.

Dad?

Yes.

I’d like to come home.

Your mother and I are here, son.

It was my best Oklahoma Christmas.

And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children,

and the heart of the children to their fathers

– Malachi 4, the Bible